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scintillating-galaxias · 5 years

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give ‘em hell, darling

Chapter Three—Step 2

Uriel makes an example out of Aziraphale.

CW for descriptions of body horror. (Read it here on ao3!)

Aziraphale had forgotten how absolutely clinical Heaven was.

The air had a sterile tastelessness to it that laid heavy on his tongue. Everything was an inoffensive gray, white, or beige, or possibly a daring khaki. Every building was made of polished and unblemished marble and cut perfectly into either cubes or a strange design that, in the human world, would be called ‘modern art’ and then be scoffed at for being labeled as such. There were no decorations to be found. Fountains of holy water and nature were the only exceptions and both were native only to the living quarters of the good human souls that had made it up here. The angelic HQ had no need for such lavacious things.

Crowley was right about the smell of bleach. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it before, but it was everywhere, soaking into the cold, cold stone and purging any disease from its purity. It stung his nose and reminded him of the ghastly stories of hospitals that took patients in with no intention of allowing them to leave again. It made him yearn for the metallic smell of rain, the belching fumes of gasoline, the rich, the faintly sweet smell of his leather-bound books, oh his books. He missed them dearly. He missed Earth dearly. And he had only been here for a couple of minutes.

Aziraphale was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake turning himself in so easily.

He shifted his wrists beneath his tightly bound cuffs. Upon Aziraphale’s arrival, Uriel had bound them and his wings as well so that if he tried to go back down to Earth, he would fall and reach terminal velocity before becoming angelic paste on the pavement. He didn’t use his wings to literally fly from Earth to Heaven or vice versa, but he required their Holy presence to properly go to and from the two places. That being said, he had an extremely painful cramp that was seizing up his entire left side, and he very much doubted he could convince Uriel to loosen the cuffs on his wings so that he may stretch them out.

Speaking of Uriel. That was a rather wicked looking dagger they had.

“What is it?” Their face was a perfectly cut mask of cool indifference, as per usual. But something about it looked pleased at Aziraphale’s discomfort.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. He glanced away, warily watching the dagger out of the corner of his eye. It was made of some pulsating purple-black material that hissed and bubbled and dripped with something that clearly disagreed with being in such a holy space. He could feel its tarlike aura molding itself onto his, trying to capture as much as it could before drowning it. It made him feel a bit nauseous. It was a mystery how Uriel could hold it at all, even with the glove.

Aziraphale tensed and untensed his arms, trying to relieve some of the pain. “Erm,” he said awkwardly. “That’s a fascinating... knife you’ve got there. Is it new?”

Uriel hardly spared him a glance. “It was specially commissioned from the Hell Forge just for you.”

“I-I see.” Aziraphale swallowed and inched further away from the blade. It appeared Crowley had been correct. Again. Aziraphale should really start to heed his cautiousness more often. You’d think he’d be a little less uppity about it, especially after six thousand years. He bit his lip and hoped Crowley was doing alright without him.

He tried to distract himself by flicking his eyes to a familiar cityscape. He took in skyscrapers and apartment complexes gleaming in the too-bright sunshine. They stretched their bony structures and scraped an ivory intrusion against the pure blue sky, punctuated by painting-like clouds. Rain was a rarity, yet a rainbow arched gracefully above it all, its colors bold and bright in a way they never would be on Earth. This felt incredibly ironic to Aziraphale. The rainbow had been made for humans after the Almighty had demolished the entire population of Mesopotamia and then some. It was a gift, a promise, to never let it happen again. Shouldn’t that have been proof enough that the whole Written Plan about the Apocalypse was a load of old tosh? Humanity was not meant to come to an End. And here was Heaven using Her promise as a minute detail to a perfect picture.

Aziraphale felt a venomous critter of disgust creep through him. He smiled thinly. “Lucky me.”

“Yes. Lucky you.”

He decided Heaven’s imitation of Earth’s atmosphere was not for him. He focused instead on the floating Globe lazily spinning in the middle of the floor. It felt like yesterday that he was being berated by the Quartermaster as he dipped his finger into the little brown-green patch that was England. He desperately wanted to relive that moment right now. In fact, his finger actually twitched in a desperate attempt to flee, despite being fully aware of what would happen if he did.

He wondered what was going to happen if he didn’t. They’d been standing here for a good ten minutes now and had not moved. “Pardon me, but could you perhaps enlighten me of my fate?” he said, allowing a bit of a plea to slip into his voice. “I am your prisoner. I’d like to think I have a right to know.”

“You’d be wrong.”

Well then. So much for that. Aziraphale pressed his lips together and nodded. Questions still bounced uselessly around his head like the balls inside of a bingo wheel. He picked whichever one popped out first. “What is it that we’re waiting for?”

Uriel finally looked at him, but he almost wished they hadn’t. “Your cell is being prepared. You need to stop asking questions.”

Heaven has a prison? thought Aziraphale. What was the point of that? Why would anyone need to be punished if they, with himself and his Fallen brethren as the exceptions, could do no wrong? Perhaps humans could still be a bit rowdy.

Or maybe they merely made one just for him. They made a dagger just for him. A room didn’t feel like that large of a stretch.

Uriel’s chin came up slightly as though they were listening to something. Aziraphale turned his head about, but didn’t see anyone, until he noticed the earpiece place snugly on Uriel’s head. They were silent for a few more seconds. Then they brought a finger to their ear and said, “We’re on our way.” Then, to Aziraphale, “Follow me.”

“Wh—I demand you tell me where we’re going first!”

Uriel barked out a wrathfully amused laugh. “You’re in no position to be making demands. Come.”

They began to walk away. Aziraphale followed them after a hesitant moment.

Together they went down stairwell after stairwell, through hallway after hallway. Every place was strangely devoid of life. Aziraphale peered into offices as they passed by—not a single soul. No one at the desks, no one bustling back and forth with a clipboard, not even a single friendly conversation. The only sounds were the colliding echoes of their footsteps: Uriel’s, firm thuds from the heel of their boots, Aziraphale’s gentler shuffles from his loafers. Apprehension and curiosity began to struggle beneath his skin, straining for answers. He swallowed them down and tred on.

They finally made it to the first floor after what was paradoxically a short eternity and thirty seconds. Uriel went straight for the sliding doors without a single glance back. Either they were confident Aziraphale would not make a harebrained escape attempt, or—no, Uriel was quick as a whip, and could be as dangerous as one, too. Especially with that dagger. Aziraphale wouldn’t be going anywhere. He trudged after Uriel, trying to keep his gaze from drooping to the ground for too long. They went through the sliding doors and Aziraphale—

Aziraphale… stopped.

Because before them, stretching for miles and miles and miles, were millions of angels. The ground and sky were swallowed up by grey suits, white dressed, five thousand all-seeing eyes staring in directions that could never be named. A cacophonous mix of true forms melding around corporeal forms lit up space in impossible colors and shapes. Heat and cold lived as one, light and dark, unified and separate. All types of heavenly creatures from raging seraphim whose being swelled and engulfed everything in a five hundred meter radius to a ninth rank angel who was dwarfed in comparison and everything in-between was there.

And every single one was staring at Aziraphale.

Stupefied, he could only manage, “So that’s where everyone went.”

The front of the crowd swelled towards him at his words, taking him in, picking him apart, like a greedy ocean tide lapping at the soles of his feet.

“That’s the traitor?” murmured a Throne. “He doesn’t look it.”

A buzz of agreement rose and fell. Some were even dubiously daring to dart their gaze back and forth between him and Uriel. He could feel it too—the strange mix of righteous anger and unyielding love, yet doubt was melting holes into that steely resolve. Aziraphale coaxed a weak smile to his face. Perhaps—perhaps Heaven had some hope.

“Shut it,” snapped Uriel. Evidently, they were not pleased with the reaction. “Don’t you feel it? This is who sabotaged the Great Plan. This is who turned God’s Will into something of his own creation.”

A few Powers shared a glance. “Do you… want an answer?” said one, very carefully avoiding the word “honesty.”

A nearby Cherub bristled, its interlocking wheels made up of nonexistent planes of existence spinning faster in agitation. This is who renounced God’s will, it howled, their celestial voice resonating from every atom and screaming into every angel’s head, this is who twisted the Great Plan and put Her plans to ruin! This is he who turns his back on the Almighty!

And just like that, the crowd shrank away from Aziraphale, hissing like water on a burning skillet. Uriel smirked and strode into the crowd. It slowly parted around Uriel at first, but as Aziraphale reluctantly went to follow, it shot away as if he were poison. Which, if Heavenly propaganda was up to its old standards, he may as well be.

“There is hope for you yet!” shouted a fellow Principality as he passed. “Renounce, and God’s Love will shine on you once again!”

Aziraphale cringed but did not allow his head to bow in shame. He resolutely kept his eyes up. They couldn’t possibly know what had really happened on Earth. They couldn’t possibly really know Earth. Humanity. He could forgive them.

“Look upon the grayness to his being? He has been tempted to Sin by that demon! Oh, for shame, for shame!”

They didn’t know what a wonderful creature Crowley was. He could forgive them.

“Save him, save him!”

They didn’t know.

“O Lord, bestow upon your lost child the sight to see what is good and just once again…”

He could forgive them.

Aziraphale walked on, and on, and on, walked on through the jeers, walked on through the judging glares, walked on through the tears. The anger was overwhelming him, but he couldn’t tell if it was his own, or simply what he was absorbing from twenty million angels. The tide returned and snared his ankles. It felt like drowning in a boiling sea. Foaming waves dragged his struggling body away from the safety of the shore, tossing him out to churning open water and plunging him deep, deep down into seething depths. Reaching for air wasn’t possible—it was burning too. It forced its way into his mouth and began to broil his insides, setting his very heart aflame. His skin blistered and popped, liquified salt poured into his wounds before he could heal again, taking him apart one quark at a time, until—

“All I have done!” roared Aziraphale, his cuffs humming as they strained to keep his wings from flaring out. The tears on his face steamed up as soon as they touched his flesh. “All I have done is love humanity just as She commanded me!”

Uriel spun around, an ugly rage marring their face. “You went against Her Written Plan!” they bellowed back, dagger jabbing closer to him with each word. “Did She not command that, too?”

“It never was Her Ineffable Plan!”

A collective gasp went up. Heaving, Aziraphale spat, “Or did Gabriel fail to mention that, too?”

The jury of Heaven fell completely silent. Uriel worked their mouth. Aziraphale closed his eyes and desperately tried to control the solar flares leaping from his body. When he reopened his eyes, it was to the sound of Uriel stalking forward, taking Aziraphale by the front of his shirt, and hissing, “We’re going.”

And then they were in a new room. The audience had vanished but their voices echoed again and again. Aziraphale wrenched himself away from Uriel and stumbled back. In the same instant, Uriel disappeared again, leaving him alone.

Like most of Heaven, the room was composed of white. The only color was the golden sigils engraved into the marble walls and himself. He noted with some hysterical despair that the room had nothing in it to fill the space—no beds, no tables, no windows, not even a chair. And, like most of Heaven, it was very cold.

There were no such things as shadows here, no creases in the corners to indicate there even was a corner. He could not tell when one wall ended until another one began. It all stretched into an everlasting white expanse wherever the golden sigils were not present. He sighed; the sound barely made it off his lips before it fell dead. The gazes of the sigils bore down on him, waiting to see what he would do. He closed his eyes against them; they felt too much like what amalgamation waited for him outside.

Quietly, Aziraphale knew this would not last. He remembered the first few angelic beings who doubted his crime. There must be more beyond them. The Cherub had gotten everyone riled up, Aziraphale included. That was simply how Cherubs were. He had seen Uriel’s face when they did not immediately denounce him; clearly, something was incorrect about how they thought Heaven really was. He swiped away another tear and struggled to steady himself with one, two, three shaking breaths. Under better circumstances, perhaps they would have listened.

There was hope yet. He was not alone. He firmly held on to that thought as he knelt down and wept.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #aziraphale #uriel (good omens)#body horror #my writing #gehd

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

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This man chapter 1

I rifle through the piles and piles of paraphernalia that’s sprawled all over my bedroom floor. I’m going to be late. On a Friday, after being on time all week, I’m going to be late.

‘Kate!’ I yell frantically. Where the hell are they? I run out onto the landing and throw myself over the banister. ‘Kate!’

I hear the familiar sound of a wooden spoon bashing the edges of a ceramic bowl as Kate appears at the bottom of the stairs. She looks up at me with a tired expression. It’s an expression I’ve become use to recently.

‘Keys! Have you seen my car keys?’ I puff at her.

‘They’re on the coffee table where you left them last night.’ She rolls her eyes, taking herself and her cake mixture back to her workshop.

I dart across the landing in a complete fluster and find my car keys under a pile of weekly glossies. ‘Hiding again,’ I mutter to myself, grabbing my tan belt, heels and laptop. I make my way downstairs, finding Kate in her workshop spooning cake mixture into various tins.

‘You need to tidy that room, Selena. It’s a f**king mess.’ she complains.

Yes, my personal organisation skills are pretty shocking, especially since I’m an interior designer, who spends all day coordinating and organising. I scoop my phone up from the chunky table and dunk my finger in Kate’s cake mixture. ‘I can’t be brilliant at everything.’

‘Get out!’ She bats my hand away with her spoon. ‘Why do you need your car, anyway?’ she asks, leaning down to smooth the mixture over, her tongue resting on her bottom lip in concentration.

‘I have a first consultation in The Surrey Hills – some country mansion.’ I feed my belt through the belt loops of my navy pencil dress, slip my feet into my tan heels and present myself to the wall mirror.

‘I thought you stuck to the city?’ she asks from behind me.

I ruffle my long, dark hair for a few seconds, flicking it from one side to another but give up, piling it up with a few grips instead. My dark brown eyes look tired and lack their usual sparkle. A result, no doubt, of burning the candle at both ends. I only moved in with Kate a month ago after splitting with Matt. We’re behaving like a couple of university students. My liver is screaming for a rest.

‘I do. The country sector is Patrick’s domain. I don’t know how I got landed with this.’ I sweep the wand of my gloss across my lips and smack them together. ‘One is not partial to old English and all things proper.’ I give Kate a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s going to be painful, I know it. Luv ya!’

‘Ditto, see you later.’ Kate laughs, without lifting her face from her work station. ‘Don’t forget your P’s and Q’s!’

Despite my lateness, I drive my little Mini with my usual care and consideration to my office on Bruton Street. I’m reminded why I tube it every day when I spend ten minutes driving around looking for a parking space.

I burst into the office and glance at the clock. Eight forty. Okay, I’m ten minutes late, not as bad as I thought. I pass Tom and Victoria’s empty desks on the way to my own, spying Patrick in his office as I land in my chair. Unpacking my laptop, I notice a package has been left for me.

‘Morning, flower.’ Patrick’s low boom greets me as he perches on the edge of my desk, followed by the customary creak under his weight. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Morning, it’s the new fabric range from Miller’s. You Like?’ I stroke some of the luxurious material.

‘Wonderful,’ he feigns interest. ‘Don’t let Irene clap her eyes on it. I’ve just liquidated most of my assets to fund the new soft furnishings at home.’

‘Oh,’ I give him a sympathetic face. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Victoria has the day off and Tom’s having a nightmare with Mr & Mrs Baines. It’s just you, me and Sal today, flower.’ He takes his comb out of his inside pocket and runs it through his silver mop.

‘I’ve got a midday appointment at The Manor,’ I remind him. He can’t have forgotten. Country pads are supposed to be his realm. ‘Why am I going, Patrick?’ I have to ask. I’ve never worked on a country property before, and I’m not sure I have the insight for old fashioned and traditional.

I’ve worked for Rococo Union for four years, and it was made clear that I was employed to expand the business into the modern sector. With luxury apartments flying up all over London, Patrick and Tom, with their speciality of traditional design, were missing out. When it took off and the work load got too much for me, he employed Victoria.

‘That would be because they asked for you, flower.’ He pushes himself to his feet, my desk creaking in protest again. Patrick ignores it, but I wince. He has to lose some weight or stop sitting on my desk. It won’t take the strain for much longer.

So, they asked for me? Why ever would they do that? My portfolio holds nothing that will reflect traditional design – nothing at all. I can’t help but think that this is a complete waste of my time. Patrick or Tom should be going.

‘Oh, Lusso launch,’ Patrick tucks his comb away. ‘The developer is really pushing the boat out with this party in the penthouse. You’ve done an amazing job, Selena.’ Patrick’s eyebrows nod with his head.

I blush. ‘Thank you.’ I’m dead proud of myself and my work at Lusso, my greatest achievement in my short career.

Based on St Katharine Docks and with prices ranging from three million for a basic apartment to ten million for the penthouse, we’re in the super rich realm. The design specification is as the name suggests: Italian luxury. I sourced all materials, furniture and art from Italy and enjoyed a week there organising the shipping schedule. Next Friday is the launch party, but I know they’ve already sold the penthouse and six other apartments, so it’s more of a showing off party.

‘I’ve cleared my diary so I can do the final checks once the cleaners are out.’ I flick the pages of my diary to next Friday and scribble across the page again.

‘Good girl, I’ve told Victoria to be there at five. It’s her first launch so you need to give her a heads up. I’ll be there at seven with Tom.’

‘Sure.’

Patrick returns to his office, and I open my email, sifting through to delete or respond where necessary.

At eleven o’clock, I pack my laptop up and poke my head around Patrick’s office door. He’s engrossed with something on his computer.

‘I’m off now.’ I say, but he just waves his hand in the air in acknowledgment. I walk through the office to see Sally fighting with the photocopier. ‘See you later, Sal.’

‘Bye, Selena.’ she replies, but she’s too busy removing the paper jam to acknowledge me with her face. The girl’s a calamity.

I walk out into the May sunshine and head for my car. Friday mid-morning traffic is a nightmare, but once I’m out of the city, the drive onwards is pretty straightforward. The roof is down, Adele is keeping me company and it’s Friday. A little drive in the countryside is a lovely way to finish my working week.

My sat-nav instructs me to pull off of the main road and onto a little lane, where I find myself in front of the biggest pair of gates I’ve ever seen. A gold plaque on a pillar states “The Manor”.

Bloody hell! I take my sunglasses off, looking past the gates and down the gravel road that seems to go for miles. There’s no sign of a house, just a tree lined road that I can’t see the end of. I get out of my car and walk up to the gates, giving them a little jiggle, but they don’t budge. I stand for a few moments, wondering what to do.

‘You need to press the intercom.’ I nearly jump out of my skin when the low rumble of a voice comes from nowhere, stabbing at the silent country air.

I look around me, but I’m definitely on my own. ‘Hello?’

‘Over here.’

I do a full three sixty turn and see the intercom further down the lane. I drove straight past it. I run over, pressing the button to announce myself. ‘Selena O’Shea, Rococo Union.’

‘I know.’

He does? How? I look around and spot a camera installed on the gate, then the shift of metal breaks the countryside peace around me. The gates start opening. ‘Give me a chance.’ I mutter as I run back to my car. I jump in my Mini and creep forward as the gates swing open, all the time wondering how I’ll remove the glass of port and cigar that are, quite clearly, wedged up that miserable sod’s arse. I’m looking less forward to this appointment by the minute. Posh country folk and their posh country mansions are not in my area of expertise.

Once the gates are fully opened, I drive through and continue on the tree lined, gravel driveway that seems to go on forever. With mature Elm trees lying on either side of the lane at regular and even intervals, you would think they had been strategically placed to conceal what lies beyond. After a mile or so of sheltered driving, I pull into a perfectly round courtyard. I take my sunglasses off and gape at the huge house that looms centrally and demands attention. It’s superb, but I’m even more apprehensive now. My enthusiasm for this appointment is dampening further by the minute.

The black doors – adorned with highly polished gold furniture – are flanked by four giant bay windows, with pillars in carved stone guarding them. Giant limestone blocks make up the structure of the mansion, with lush bay trees lining the face. The fountain in the centre of the courtyard, spraying out jets of illuminated water, tops the sight off. It’s all very imposing.

I stop, cut the engine and fumble with the door release to get out of my car. Standing and holding on to the top of my car door, I look up at the magnificent building and immediately think that this has to be a mistake. The place is in amazing condition.

The lawns are greener than green, the house looks like it receives daily scrub downs and even the gravel looks like it receives a daily hoover. If the exterior is anything to go by, then I can’t imagine the inside needing any work. I look up at the dozens of sash bay windows, seeing plush curtains hanging at them all. I’m tempted to call Patrick to check I’ve got the right address, but it did say The Manor on the gates. And that miserable sod on the other end of the intercom was obviously expecting me.

While I’m pondering my next move, the doors open, revealing the biggest black man I’ve ever seen. He saunters out to the top of the steps. I physically flinch at the sight of him, stepping back slightly. He has a black suit on – specially made for sure because that’s no regular size – a black shirt and a black tie. His shaven head looks like it’s been buffed to a shine, and wraparound sunglasses conceal his face. If I could build a mental image of who I would have expected to walk out of them doors, he, most definitely, would not be it. The man is a mountain, and I know I’m stood here gawking at him. I’m suddenly slightly concerned that I’ve turned up at some mafia control centre, and I search my brain trying to remember if I transferred my rape alarm to my new handbag.

‘Miss O’Shea?’ he drawls.

I wilt under his massive presence, putting my hand up in a nervous wave gesture. ‘Hi.’ I whisper, my voice laced with all of the apprehension I truly feel.

‘This way.’ he rumbles deeply, giving a sharp nod of his head and turning to walk back into the mansion.

I deliberate on cutting and running, but the daring and dangerous side of me is curious of what lays beyond those doors. He’s no butler. I grab my bag, shut my car door and check for my rape alarm as I walk towards the house, only to find I’ve left it in my other bag. I carry on anyway. Pure curiosity has me walking up the steps and crossing the threshold into a huge entrance hall. I gaze around the vast area, and I’m immediately impressed by the grand, centrally position, curved staircase that leads up to the first floor.

My fears are confirmed. This place is immaculate.

The décor is opulent, lush and very intimidating. Deep blues, taupe’s with hints of gold and original woodwork, along with the rich mahogany parquet floor, makes the place striking and massively extrSelenagant. It’s exactly how I would have expected it to be and nowhere near my design style. But then again, looking around, why any interior designer would be here is becoming more and more confusing. Patrick said they requested me personally, so I would be inclined to think that they want to modernise the place, but that would’ve been before I got a glimpse of the exterior and now the interior too. The décor suits the period building. It’s in perfect condition. Why the hell am I here?

Big guy heads off to the right, leaving me to scuttle off after him. My tan heels clink on the parquet floor as he leads me past the central staircase, towards the back of the Mansion.

I hear the hum of conversation and glance to my right, noticing many people sat at various tables eating, drinking and chatting. Waiters are serving food and drinks, and the distinct voices of The Rat Pack are purring in the background. I frown, but then I click. It’s a hotel – a posh country hotel. My shoulders sag slightly in relief at concluding this, but it still doesn’t explain why I’m here. I’m lead past some toilets and then a bar. A few men are sat on bar stools cracking jokes and teasing a young woman, who has, apparently, returned from the lSelenatory with toilet roll stuck to her heel. She playfully slaps the main instigator on the shoulder, scolding him while laughing along with them.

This is all beginning to make sense to me. I want to say something to the mountain of a man leading me, God only knows where, but he hasn’t looked back once to check I’m following. Although, the clink of my heels tells him I am. He doesn’t say much, and I suspect he wouldn’t answer me if I did speak.

We continue past two more closed doors. Judging by the clanking of pots, I assume one to be the kitchen. Then he leads me into a summer room – a massive, light, stunningly lavish space that’s sectioned off into individual seating areas by the positioning of sofa’s, big arm chairs and tables. Floor to ceiling bi-fold doors span the complete face of the room, leading to a yorkstone patio and a vast lawn area. It’s really quite awe inspiring. I inwardly gasp when I spot a glass building housing a swimming pool. It’s incredible. I shudder to think how much the nightly rate is. It has to be five stars – probably more.

Once we’ve passed through the summer room, I’m lead down a corridor until big guy stops outside a wooden panelled door. ‘Mr Ward’s office.’ he rumbles, knocking the door, surprisingly gently given his mammoth size.

‘The Manager?’ I ask.

‘The Owner,’ he replies, opening the door and striding through. ‘Come in.’

I hesitate on the threshold, watching as the big guy strides into the room ahead of me. I eventually force my feet into action, moving into the room, while gazing around at the equally luxurious surroundings of Mr Ward’s office.

Chapter 2

‘Justin, Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.’ Big guy announces.

‘Perfect. Thanks, John.’

I’m dragged from my awed like state, straight into high alert. My back straightens.

I can’t see him, he’s obscured by the big guy’s massive frame, but that raspy, smooth voice has me frozen on the spot, and it certainly doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a cigar smoking, overweight, wax jacket wearing Lord of the Manor.

Big guy, or John as I now know him, moves to the side, giving me my first glimpse of Mr Justin Ward.

Oh good God. My heart crashes against my breast bone and my nervous breathing rockets to damn right dangerous levels. I suddenly feel light headed, and my mouth is ignoring my brains instructions to at least say something. I just stand there staring at this man, while he stares back at me. His husky voice halted me in my tracks, but the sight of him…well, that’s just turned me into a non-responsive, quivering wreck.

He rises from his chair, my gaze traveling up with him until he’s stood at full height. He’s very tall. His white shirt is casually rolled at the sleeves, but he still wears a black tie, loosely knotted and hanging down the front of a broad chest.

He makes his way around his massive desk and slowly walks towards me. It’s then that I take in the full impact of him. I gulp. This man is so perfect, I’m almost in pain. His dirty blonde hair looks like he’s half attempted to get it into some semblance of a style but given up. His eyes are sludgy green, but bright and way too intense, and the stubble covering his square jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it. He’s lightly tanned and just…Oh God, he’s devastating. Lord of the Manor?

‘Miss O’Shea.’ His hand comes toward me, but I can’t persuade my arm to raise and clasp his outstretched offering. He’s beautiful.

When I don’t offer my hand, he reaches forward and clasps both of my shoulders, then slowly leans in to kiss me, his lips brushing lightly over my burning cheek. I tense all over. I can hear my pulse throbbing in my ears, and even though it’s completely inappropriate for a business meeting, I do nothing to stop him. I’m all over the place.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ he whispers in my ear, which only serves to make me moan slightly. He must feel my tenseness – it’s not difficult, I’m rigid – because his grip eases up and he lowers his face to my level, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, one side of his mouth lifting into a semblance of a smile. I notice a single frown line across his forehead.

I snap myself out of my ridiculous inertness, suddenly aware that I’ve still not said anything. Has he noticed my reaction to him? What about big guy? I glance over, seeing the big guy stood motionless, glasses still in place, but I know his eyes are on me. I mentally shake myself and step back, away from Ward and his potent grasp. His hands fall to his side.

‘Hi,’ I cough to clear my throat. ‘Selena. My name is Selena.’ I offer him my hand, but he’s unhurried in accepting it, like he’s unsure whether it’s safe to, but he does…eventually.

His hand is clammy and slightly shaky as he squeezes mine firmly. Sparks fizz and a curious look flits across his stunning face. We both retract our hands in shock.

‘Selena.’ He’s trying my name on his lips, and it takes all of my strength not to moan again. He should stop talking – immediately.

‘Yes, Selena.’ I confirm. He’s the one who seems to be off in his own little nirvana now, while I’m becoming increasingly aware of my rising temperature.

He suddenly seems to come to his senses, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets as he shakes his head slightly, retreating backwards. ‘Thanks, John.’ he nods to the big guy, who smiles slightly, softening his hard features, then leaves.

I’m alone with this man, who has rendered me speechless, motionless and pretty much useless.

He nods towards two brown leather couches, positioned opposite each other in the bay window, with a large coffee table sitting between them. ‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’ He drags his gaze from mine, walking towards a cabinet with various bottles of liquor lined up on top. He surely doesn’t mean alcohol? It’s midday. Even by my standards it’s too early. I watch as he hovers at the cabinet for a few moments before turning to face me again, looking at me expectantly.

‘No, thank you.’ I shake my head as I speak, just in case the words don’t come out.

‘Water?’ he asks, that smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, don’t look at me. ‘Please.’ I smile a nervous smile. My mouth is parched.

He collects two bottles of water from the integrated fridge and turns back towards me. It’s then that I persuade my shaky legs to carry me across the room to the sofa.

‘Selena?’ His voice rolls across me, causing me to falter en-route.

I turn to face him. It’s probably a bad idea. ‘Yes?’

He holds up a highball. ‘Glass?’

‘Yes, please.’ I smile. He must think I’m so unprofessional. I settle myself on the leather couch, retrieve my folder and phone from my bag and place them on the table in front of me. I notice my hands shaking.

Christ, woman. Get a grip! I feign making notes as he strolls back over, placing my water and a glass on the table. He sits down on the sofa opposite and crosses one leg over the other, his ankle resting on his thigh. He stretches back. He’s really making himself comfortable, and the silence that falls between us is screaming as I write anything and everything to avoid looking up at him. I know I’ve got to look at the man and say something at some point, but all standard enquiry questions have run, screaming and shouting, from my brain.

‘So, where do we start?’ he asks, forcing me look up and acknowledge his question. He smiles. I swoon.

He’s watching me over the rim of his bottle as he raises it to those lovely lips. I break the eye contact, reaching forward to pour some water into my glass. I’m struggling to reign in my nerves, and I can still feel his eyes on me. This is truly awkward. I’ve never been so affected by a man.

‘I guess you should tell me why I’m here.’ I speak! I look back up at him as I take my glass from the table.

‘Oh?’ he says quietly. There’s that frown line again. Even with that, he’s still beautiful.

‘You requested me by name?’ I press.

‘Yes.’ he replies simply. He smiles again. I have to look away.

I take a sip of my water to moisten my dry mouth, and clear my throat before returning my gaze to his potent stare. ‘So, can I ask why?’

‘You can.’ He uncrosses his leg, leaning forward to place his bottle on the table, resting his forearms on his knees, but he says no more. Is he not going to elaborate on that?

‘Okay,’ I struggle to maintain eye contact. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve heard great things about you.’

I feel my face burning up. ‘Thank you. So, why am I here?’

‘Well, to design.’ He laughs, and I feel stupid but slightly irritated as well. Is he making fun of me?

‘Design what exactly?’ I ask. ‘From what I’ve seen, everything is pretty perfect.’ He surely doesn’t want to modernise this lovely place. It may not be my forte, but I know class when I see it.

‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘Do you have your portfolio with you?’

‘Of course,’ I reply, reaching into my bag. Why he wants to look at it is beyond me. It won’t reflect anything like this place.

I place it on the table in front of him and expect him to drag it over to his side, but to my horror, he stands in one fluid movement and walks around to me, lowering his lovely lean body onto the sofa next to me. Oh, Jesus. He smells divine – all fresh water and minty. I hold my breath.

Leaning forward, he opens the folder. ‘You’re very young to be such an accomplished designer.’ he muses, slowly turning the pages of my portfolio.

He’s right, I am. It’s only thanks to Patrick for giving me free reign on the expansion of his business. In four years, I’ve fallen out of college, picked up a job in an established design company – that had the financial stability but lacked the new freshness in modern ideas – and made a name for myself on the back of it. I’ve been lucky, and I appreciate Patrick’s faith in my capabilities. That, coupled with my contract at Lusso, is the only reason I’m where I am at the age of twenty six.

I look down at his lovely hand, his wrist adorned in a beautiful gold and graphite Rolex. ‘How old are you?’ I blurt. Oh, good God. My brain is like scrambled egg, and I know I’ve just blushed a sharp shade of red. I should just keep my mouth shut. Where the hell did that come from?

He looks at me intently, his green eyes burning into mine. ‘Twenty one.’ he answers, completely pokerfaced.

I scoff mildly, and his eyebrows jump up questioningly. ‘Sorry.’ I mutter, turning back to the table. I’m feeling flustered. I hear him exhale heavily as his lovely hand reaches back down to my portfolio to start turning the pages again, his left hand resting on the edge of the table.

I notice no ring. He’s not married? How can that be?

‘This, I like a lot.’ He points to the photographs of Lusso.

‘I’m not sure my works on Lusso would fit in here.’ I say quietly. It’s way too modern – luxurious, yes, but too modern.

He looks up at me. ‘You’re right, I’m just saying…I really like it.’

‘Thank you.’ I feel my colour deepen as he studies me thoughtfully before returning to my portfolio.

I make a grab for my water, resisting the temptation to chuck it down my front to cool me off, but very nearly do when his trouser clad thigh brushes against my bare knee. I shift quickly to break the contact, glancing out the corner of my eye to see a small smirk breaking at the edge of his mouth. He’s doing this on purpose. It’s too much.

‘Do you have a toilet?’ I ask as I place my glass back on the table and stand. I need to go and compose myself. I’m a ruffled mess.

He rises from the couch swiftly, moving back to let me pass. ‘Through the summer room and on your left.’ he says with a smile. He knows he’s affecting me. The way he’s smiling at me, knowingly, I bet he has this sort of reaction from women all of the time.

‘Thank you.’ I edge out of the small gape between the table and the sofa, my task hampered as he makes no attempt to give me more space. I have to virtually brush past him, and that has me holding my breath until I’m clear of his body.

I walk towards the door. His eyes are on me; I can feel them burning a hole through my dress. I roll my neck to try and rid myself of the goose bumps jumping onto my nape.

Stumbling out of his office, I head down the corridor before wandering through the summer room and staggering into the ridiculously posh lSelenatories. I brace myself over the sink and look in the mirror. ‘Jesus, Selena. Pull it together!’ I scorn my reflection.

‘Met the Lord, have we?’

I swing around and find a very attractive business lady, faffing with her hair at the other end of the room. I have no idea what to say, but she’s just confirmed what I already suspected – he does have this affect on all women. When my brain fails to deliver on anything suitable to say, I just smile.

She returns my smile, amused and knowing of the reason for my flustered state, before disappearing from the toilets. If I wasn’t feeling so hot and nervous, I might be embarrassed at my obvious condition. But I am hot, and I’m very nervous, so I brush off my humiliation, take some steady breaths and wash my clammy hands with the Noble Isle hand wash. I should have brought my bag. I could do with some Vaseline on my lips. My mouth is still dry and my lips are suffering as a consequence.

Okay, I need to get back out there, get the specification and be gone. My heart is pleading for some let up. I’m completely ashamed of myself. I re-pin my hair and exit the toilets, making my way back to Mr Ward’s office. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to work for this man; I’m just way too affected by him.

I knock before I enter, finding him sat on the couch looking over my portfolio. He looks up and smiles, and I know now, I really have to leave. I can’t possibly work with this man. Every molecule of intelligence and brain power I possess has been zapped from my body by his presence. And worse of all, he knows it.

I give myself a mental pep talk, making my way over to the table, ignoring the fact that he’s following my every move. He leans back on the sofa in a gesture for me to squeeze past, but I don’t. I take a seat on the opposite sofa, perching on the edge.

He flicks me a questioning look. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I answer shortly. He knows. ‘Would you like to show me where your intended project is so we can start discussing requirements?’ I force the confidence into my voice. I’m just following protocol now. I’ve absolutely no intention of taking this contract on, but I can’t just walk out – as tempting as it is.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by my change of approach. ‘Sure.’ He gets up from the sofa, striding over to his desk to collect his mobile. I gather my things, stuff them into my bag and follow his gesture to lead the way.

He quickly overtakes me, opening the door and performing an exaggerated gentlemanly bow as he holds it open. I smile politely – even though I know he’s playing with me – and exit into the corridor, heading towards the summer room. I stiffen on a gasp when he places a hand at the small of my back to guide me.

What’s he playing at? I’m trying my hardest to ignore it, but you would have to be dead not to notice the affect this man’s having on me. And I know he knows it. My skin’s burning all over – almost certainly warming his palm through my dress – I can’t get my breathing under control and walking is taking every bit of coordination and effort I possess. I’m pathetic, and it’s bloody obvious he’s enjoying the reactions he’s drawing from me. I must be quite amusing.

Annoyed with myself, I walk a little quicker to break the contact of his hand from my back, stopping when I reach the point of two possible routes.

He reaches me, pointing out across the lawns to the tennis courts. ‘Do you play?’

I actually laugh, but it’s a comfortable laugh. ‘No, I don’t.’ I can run, but that’s about it. Give me a bat, racket or a ball, then you’re asking for trouble. The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin at my reaction, bolstering the green of his eyes and lengthening his generous lashes. I smile, shaking my head in wonder at this glorious man. ‘You?’ I ask.

He continues through to the entrance hall, me following. ‘I don’t mind the odd game, but I’m more of an extreme sports kinda guy.’ He stops, and I halt with him.

He looks ridiculously fit and toned. ‘What sort of extreme sports?’

‘Snow-boarding, mainly, but I’ve tried my hand at white water rafting, bungee jumping and skydiving. I’m a bit of an adrenalin junky. I like to feel the blood pumping.’ He watches me as he speaks, making me feel scrutinised. You would have to anesthetise me before you got me doing any of his blood pumping pastimes. I’ll stick to a run every so often.

‘Extreme.’ I say, studying this magnificent man of an age I don’t know.

‘Very extreme,’ he confirms quietly. My breath catches again and I close my eyes, mentally yelling at myself for being such a loser. ‘Shall we continue?’ he asks. I can hear humour in his voice.

I open my eyes to be met by his penetrating, green stare. ‘Yes, please.’

I wish he would stop looking at me like that. He half smiles again and walks into the bar, greeting the men I saw earlier by clapping them on the shoulders. The woman is no longer here. The two men are very attractive, young – probably late twenties – and perched on bar stools, drinking bottles of beer.

‘Guys, this is Selena. Selena, this is Sam Kelt and Drew Davies.’

‘Good afternoon.’ Drew drawls. He’s a bit miserable. His appearance – he’s handsome in a rugged kind of way – and character, tell me he’s smart, confident and a business type. His black hair is perfectly styled, his suit pristine, his eyes shrewd.

‘Hi.’ I smile politely.

‘Welcome to the pleasure dome,’ Sam laughs, raising his bottle. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

I notice Ward shake his head lightly on an eye roll. Sam grins. He’s the polar opposite of Drew – all casual and laid back, in old jeans, a Superdry T-shirt and converse. He has a cheeky face, complimented by one dimple on his left cheek. His blue eyes twinkle, adding to his cheekiness, and his mousey brown, shoulder length hair is all over the place.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ I answer.

He nods at Ward. ‘Justin?’

‘No, I’m good, I‘m just giving Selena a tour of the extension. She’ll be working on the interiors.’ he says, smiling at me.

I quietly scoff to myself. Not if I have anything to do with it. Anyway, he’s jumping the gun a bit, isn’t he? We’ve not discussed rates, briefs or anything, for that matter.

‘About time, there are never any rooms Selenailable.’ Drew grumbles into his bottle. Why have I never heard of this place?

‘How was the boarding in Cortina, my man?’ Sam asks.

Ward perches on another stool. ‘Amazing. The Italian way of skiing follows pretty closely to their laid back lifestyle,’ He smiles broadly, the first proper full beam smile since I’ve laid eyes on him – all straight, white and lush. This man is a God. ‘I got up late, found a great mountain, ran the slopes until my legs buckled, had a siesta, ate late and started all over again the next day.’ He’s addressing us all but staring at me. His passion for the slopes is demonstrated in his wide smile.

I can’t help but return his beam. ‘You’re good?’ I ask, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind. I imagine he’s good at everything.

‘Very,’ he confirms quietly. I nod my approval, and for a few seconds, our eyes are locked. I’m the first to break it. ‘Shall we?’ he asks, pushing himself up from the stool and gesturing towards the exit.

‘Yes.’ I smile. I’m supposedly here to work, after all. All I’ve achieved so far is a hot flush and an establishment of extreme sports. I feel like I’m in a trance.

From the moment I pulled up to those gates, I knew it wasn’t going to be an average day to day meeting, and I was right. In the four years I’ve been visiting people in their homes, work places and new builds, I’ve never come across a Justin Ward. I probably never will do again. It’s undoubtedly a good job.

I turn to the two guys at the bar, smiling my goodbye, prompting them to raise their bottles before they continue with their conversation. I walk towards the door that leads back to the entrance hall, feeling him close behind me. He’s too close; I can smell him. I close my eyes, sending a small prayer to God to get me through this quickly, with at least a bit of dignity intact. He’s just way too intense and it’s throwing my senses in a million different directions.

‘So, now for the main feature,’ He begins to climb the wide staircase. I follow him, gazing around the colossal void that leads to a huge gallery landing. ‘These are the private rooms.’ he says, pointing to various doors that lead off of the landing.

I follow, admiring his lovely backside, thinking he possibly has the sexiest walk I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. When I drag my eyes from his tidy rear, I see that there are at least twenty doors, evenly spaced and leading into rooms beyond. He leads me until we reach another grand staircase that stretches to another floor. At the foot of the stairs, there’s a beautiful stained glass window and an archway leading to another wing.

‘This is the extension,’ He guides me through to a new section of the mansion. ‘This is where I need your help.’ he adds, halting at the mouth of a corridor that leads to a further ten rooms.

‘This is all new?’ I ask.

‘Yes, they’re all shells at the moment, but I’m sure you’ll remedy that. Let me show you.’

I’m way past shocked when he takes my hand, tugging me down the corridor to the very last door. Inappropriate! His hand is still clammy, and I’m sure mine is trembling in his grip. The arched brow on a slight grin he flashes me, tells me I’m right. There’s some sort of super charged current flowing through us – it’s making me shudder.

He opens the door, directing me into a freshly plastered room. It’s vast, and the new windows are sympathetic to the existing property. Whoever built this did an excellent job.

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